


Neighborly

by Cesare



Category: Actor RPF, Elijah Wood RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF, lotrips
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vampire Elijah story for Samena, in return for <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/almostnever/349653.html?thread=2438101#t2438101">fabulous vampire Elijah icons</a>. No warnings needed: I don't think there's really even any bad language! What came over me?! This may be the most wholesome vampire fic ever. It could go on for longer than this-- in fact to fully get across what I have in mind, it at least needs one more part. But let's go with this as a fun little standalone.</p><p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/44393">There's also a remix by v_angelique.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Neighborly

Mrs. Scales stops Dominic at the postbox with a hand laid on his arm.

Please don't let this be about my stereo, Dom thinks, his head pounding. Or that dodgy bloke I had over two weeks ago-- the bastard probably nicked her windchimes. Or the plumbing. Oh God, she's going to tell me it drips sewerage into her bedroom every time I flush. It probably has done for two months and she's just been too nice to say so.

"Have you heard?" she asks, her voice confidential and low.

"Don't think so," Dom says cheerfully; he's just relieved it's only gossip, and not a leaky pipe. "What's the news?"

"We have one of _them_ moving in," she says, round-eyed, delightedly horrified. "You know." She makes hooks of two fingers and jabs the air with them, hissing.

Something about the sight of his sixty-year-old landlady making snakey gestures puts Dom in a very good frame of mind, despite his hangover. Candide was right: this obviously is the best of all possible worlds.

Mrs. Scales takes his bemused stare for speechless surprise and nods. "I know, shocking, isn't it! Well, the building can't turn him away, it's discrimination. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually!" She pats his arm. "Only you look out for yourself, Dominic, you're just the type they like."

"Never worry," Dom says stoutly. "Even if he gets the fangs out, he'll get nothing out of me but good strong-- tea."

"Good lad," Mrs. Scales beams at him, and totters her way back inside.

That leaves him alone to wonder what type he is that vampires like. Short? Camp? Possessed of a truly staggering number of shoes?

Not that it matters. Six months he's lived here, and thanks to his odd hours, Dom's managed not to exchange a word with a single one of his neighbors apart from Mrs. Scales. A vampire moving in to one of the vacant flats nearby will just give Dom a slightly more exotic person to trade noncommital smiles with, on the way to and from the newsagent's.

*

Dom is shattered when he comes back from class at half ten. His spine feels like an old celery stalk, a limp column down his weary back.

He actually resorts to rummaging in the cupboards hoping to find a box curry, but his old flatmate must've taken all her shite instant food with her when she left. And he's never been one to keep Pot Noodles in. There's nothing for it. He has to cook.

At least he did the shopping yesterday, so there's plenty of fodder for a good stir-fry. Dom fetches out cabbage and soy sauce and snow peas. He takes the knife to a bit of pork, overflowing its sad little tray with wan juice as he hacks and saws away at it. He's too knackered to bother finding the cutting board, a decision he regrets after slicing through the meat diaper and the tray repeatedly and coating his countertop in pale gooshy pig juice.

When the knock sounds at the door, Dom dutifully trots to fling it open, too tired and distracted to remember that none of his friends are likely to call at eleven PM on a Wednesday.

"Hi!" says the Yank on his doorstep.

"Hiya," Dom answers, suddenly and terribly conscious of his battered jeans, his dowdy button-up Western shirt, his hands sheathed in the odor of minced ginger and raw pork. In his defense, the shirt, with its little pastel horse-heads, was a gift, and also it's laundry day tomorrow; he wishes he were wearing a sign to that effect.

The bloke on the doorstep is stunning. He's only wearing normal grey trousers and a normal striped shirt, but somehow it all looks crisp and perfect, as though wrinkles, creases and dust motes simply don't apply to him. His dark hair is silky, fluffy and glossy all at once, like the feathers of a black and glamorous duckling. His skin looks soft and white and sweet as confectioner's sugar.

"Hiya," Dom says again.

"I'm Elijah, I'm new to the neighborhood," says the bloke, and puts out his hand. His palm is cool and welcoming. Taking it is like sliding into a bed made up with fresh white linens.

"Dominic. Monaghan," Dom adds. He registers the 'new' and remembers, with a sinking sensation, Mrs. Scales' warning. Fervently he hopes that somehow he misunderstood her, and all those cobra gestures referred not to vampires but to Americans. Surely the hand signs for one would be rather like the other.

"Nice to meet you, Dominic," Elijah gives him an unnaturally tight smile-- the only imperfect thing about him, no teeth, lips sealed.

Bugger.

"And you. Welcome to the neighborhood." With a start Dom recalls that his hands are positively shellacked in pig's blood. He shoves them deep into his pockets as nonchalantly as possible and asks, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Do you happen to have a spare light bulb? The overhead light burned out in my new place, and none of the bulbs in the lamps are the same size."

"Can't you lot see in the dark?" Dominic blurts.

"Nooo," Elijah says, his tone somehow conveying that he's not offended but that he does think that Dom is a twat for asking. It's quite eloquent for one syllable. "If you could spare one, I can replace it for you once the stores are open again. Or just pay you back."

"No need, that's quite all right, it's just a lightbulb. Come in," Dom says automatically, and only just stops himself wincing. You only have to invite them in, don't you? And he's already narked the vampire off. Just before beckoning him into the hallway that opens onto his pig-blood-coated kitchen.

Elijah fails to explode into a killing frenzy as he steps inside, though, merely giving another polite smile. "Thank you."

"I'll just, hm." Dom hesitates. There are roughly three dozen places in his flat where he might've stashed light bulbs; he's very organized, but he tends to forget the system he just used to sort things within ten minutes after he puts the last of it away. "I was just about to make tea, would you like a cuppa?"

"I don't want to put you out." Elijah follows as Dom drifts into the kitchen; he doesn't seem to pay any mind at all to the wrecked flesh and brimming pink tide on the counter. In the brighter light of the kitchen, his eyes are a brilliant sea-blue. "I mean... I hate to bother you. It's just, you're the only other person who seems to be up right now."

"It's no trouble, I already had the kettle on." Dom gets down the cups, checking to see if he bunged the light bulbs in with them. After all, cups are breakable and so are light bulbs, and he's grouped things in cabinets for sillier reasons than that, which is probably why he can never bloody find anything.

The bulbs aren't in with the cups, the teabags, or the sugar. They're not in with the emergency stuff (candles, yes; light bulbs, no). They're not in with the bits and bobs in his desk amongst the extra CD cases and cellotape.

Dom rummages, increasingly self-conscious and far too keenly aware of Elijah's iolite gaze on him. For a moment he wishes he'd worn a turtleneck today, but the thought makes him feel so bigoted and guilty that he nearly overcompensates and asks Elijah to stay for supper as well. He would do, except he can't remember offhand if vampires really enjoy human food or if they're merely capable of eating and do it out of cordial deference to nervous humans.

Really, Dom thinks, it's all his employers' fault. He should've had vampire sensitivity training.

He feels horribly ignorant about vampire culture and customs, and much, much more curious about them now than he was half an hour ago. Now that his stretched smile is completely gone, the bow of Elijah's tidy little pink mouth is quite arresting.

"Sorry," Dom says, "I can't imagine where they've got to. Sugar in your tea?"

"Just a little, thanks."

Dom has already burnt his tongue on a sip-- to impatient to wait for it to cool, as always-- by the time he finds light bulbs in the closet with his tools. "_Here_ they are," Dom says victoriously. "I always have to take apart the fixture to change mine, so I put the bulbs in the same place as the screwdriver."

"Thank you!" Elijah's smile this time is a bit less guarded. He looks young, Dom sees now. His cheekbones have a slightly hollowed look that made his age hard to fix at first glance, but on a closer look, he can't have been more than twenty-five when he was turned.

"Oh, no bother, any time," Dom says blithely, as though he entertains supernatural creatures in a nonstop social whirl.

Tea is a bit of a trap sometimes, and this is one such occasion. The light bulb transaction is finished, but Elijah's cup still steams away, and apparently he's not rude enough to give it back undrunk.

Normally Dominic has no trouble with providing conversation with anyone at any time in almost any circumstance. But he can't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't display flagrant ignorance or insulting flippancy to Elijah's, er, condition.

_So, been a vampire long?_

_Is it true you can tell how big a vampire's fangs are from the size of his feet?_

_How do you get to be a vampire in this day and age anyway? Did you catch it off a toilet seat?_

"Am I keeping you up?" Elijah inquires.

"Oh, no," Dom answers quickly, just before he twigs that saying yes would've given Elijah a courteous way to escape the tea-trap. Oops. "No... I work in the evenings, so I'll be up a bit yet."

"Ah. What do you do?"

Dom would dearly like to say that he's a DJ. He really, really loves to tell people he's a DJ; he particularly loves telling it to fanciable blokes. But he only allows himself to say he's a DJ on days when he's done some work with his decks, and today he hasn't so much as glanced at his record crates.

"I teach," Dom says glumly instead. "English as a second language."

"That sounds interesting. You must have some good stories, huh?" Elijah asks gamely.

"Not really," Dom has to smile a bit at that. He's a good teacher, he can say that much for himself, and part of being a good teacher is preventing the sort of shenanigans that make for good stories.

Of course, his lack of good stories paralyzes the conversation again. It's getting a bit comical at this point, Dom thinks. He doesn't really mind the awkwardness himself; he spends so much time with people who hardly speak his language that he's cultivated a certain enjoyment of stilted communication. And he suspects it would be quite a long time before he ever got tired of simply looking at Elijah.

Dom could stand about trading monosyllables over tea all night. He's only anxious about saying the wrong thing and putting Elijah off entirely.

The more surprising thing is that Elijah doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry either. Then again, he's a vampire; he has all the time in the world.

Presently, though, he drains his cup and hands it over. "Thanks for the tea, and the light bulb. If you ever need anything, I'm in 204."

"It was really no bother, but you're welcome, yeah," Dom says, and sees him out.

He finishes chopping everything to bits and throws it all into the pan with some wok oil, prodding at it moodily. This is what comes of too much skiving off and smoking up during his school days; he ignored all the lessons about vampires because after all, what were the odds he'd ever meet one? Let alone ogle an extraordinarily fit one in tight grey trousers.

While the food sizzles, Dom kicks himself a bit, opens a beer and goes to put on music. Shuffling through his records always gives him a bit of a pick-me-up. Soon the Happy Mondays are jangling away, and he changes out of his awful horse-head shirt as well, determined to have a nice night if it kills him.

He's just giving the stir-fry a final toss when there's another knock.

"Sorry," Elijah says when he opens the door. "I hate to bother you again. But-- you said something about how the light fixture needs a screwdriver...? I guess I have the same kind in my unit. And no screwdriver." He hesitates, his lips parted, and Dom can make out the shape of his fangs clearly for the first time.

Life seldom affords such a clearcut chance at a do-over. This time Dom is well fortified with tea and beer; he's wearing the sort of snug t-shirt that always gets him a second look. He just gave his records a friendly visit, so even by his own strict code of honor, he can boast a bit and mention that as well as teaching, he does weekend DJ gigs at clubs and parties. And his supper's cooked up now and smells lovely.

"Do you like stir-fry?" he asks, neatly circumventing the entire do-vampires-like-to-eat question by going straight for the specifics.

"Sure," Elijah says.

"How about White Shield?" Dom holds up his bottle.

Elijah smiles quite naturally at that, fangs and all, with a charming little gap between his front teeth. "Looks good."

"Come on in then, have a bite," Dom says. "You can sort your place later. It's light enough in here for two."


End file.
